


Like a Fool On Fire

by IrisCandy



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Claustrophobia, Depression, Eliot's Quentin Alarm, Graphic Depictions of Illness, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, PLZ BE WARNED, Panic Attacks, Protective Eliot Waugh, Quentin Calls Eliot First, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, THERE ARE TRIGGERS IN THIS WORK, THIS WILL CONTAIN DEPICTIONS OF SELF-HARM, eliot cares, this is slash lbr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-04-30 18:16:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14502732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrisCandy/pseuds/IrisCandy
Summary: Quentin Coldwater stuck in a mosh pit alone at a Wolf Parade concert while in the middle of a depressive episode. What could possibly go wrong?





	1. Quentin & Learning the Hard Way

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "Baby Blue" by Wolf Parade. 
> 
> This is about Eliot and Quentin's relationship which takes place a few months post-season 4 if magic was restored and no one lost their memories and no one was possessed and everything was chill. 
> 
> *There is no actual self-harming in the first two chapters but there probably will be in this story. And the content is generally TRIGGERING, so please be warned.* 
> 
> I'm not sure how long this will be at the moment but probably 6ish chapters. Idk. Okay, proceed. (Comments and suggestions are quite welcome, thank you!)

Some people, when they were depressed, took solace in the chaos of strobing lights and hot bodies and loud music and drugs. Quentin Coldwater understood that philosophy. He understood the need to drown things out; to distract, to ignore, to indulge to forget. What better way to muzzle the voice in your head than to subject it to sensory overload until not even the quiet, rational voice could remember how to speak its native tongue?

The thing was, while Quentin might’ve _understood_ that philosophy, he could never manage to _adopt_ it. He’d learned that the hard way.

Apparently, he was still learning that the hard way.

It had been _Todd_ , of all people, that he’d let drag him out to this fucking concert tonight.

Earlier, Quentin had been studying in the Cottage, slouched over a few books he’d had laid open on the coffee table, his hand forked through his hair to keep it out of his face (whilst his fingers, trying to keep him focused, pressed into his temples so hard he might’ve busted a few capillaries). He was supposed to be reading up on the History of Physical Magic so that he could move on to more actual physical magic without making the same mistakes as previously unfortunate magicians who had been a tad overzealous with their schoolwork.

The only problem was that, he didn’t care. Like, at all. Like, as he read the same sentence five times over, his mind was just this white noise reel of his own annoying chitter going: _who the fuck cares who cares who cares anyways who fucking cares does it even matter none of it matters anyways who cares who cares who fucking fuck -_

And Jesus. Imagine that. Quentin Coldwater had actually gotten himself to a place in his life where he didn’t care about _magic_. He wondered if his (many) past therapists would be pleased or dismayed by that revelation.

Anyways so Todd wasn’t actually interrupting anything important when he wandered in awkwardly and sat down next to him on the sofa and kept silent for a full three minutes before actually saying anything. “Soooo. Quentin. You ever heard of Wolf Parade?”

Quentin glanced at Todd, then back at his books, then back at Todd. He shook his head, looked back at his books. “No. No I haven’t.”

Todd seemed to perk up, straightening in his seat. “Dude, what? Really?”

Quentin sighed and let his hand drop a little, pressing the heel of his palm into his forehead instead. “Yeah, I don’t know, Todd. Yeah. I don’t know.”

“Ooookay, well, they’re playing tonight. And we’re all going. And I think you should come. It’ll be awesome.”

Quentin heard what Todd asked him, and understood what Todd asked him, but didn’t really _register_ what Todd asked him, because he didn’t care. He didn’t care where he himself went tonight, or tomorrow, or the next day. So, he said, “Yeah, sounds cool.”

Cause where was anxiety when you actually needed it, right?

So anyways, there he was, in a mosh pit, not even really remembering how he got there. The “everyone” Todd had referred to was him and a few other first years Quentin hardly knew the names of, and all of them, Todd included, had long since vanished into the writhing crowd.

People were not just rubbing against Quentin, but full on jostling, pushing, and _grinding –_ and Quentin was standing there with his arms tucked against his chest and his fingers all crooked like they were trying to grow claws and he was spinning, looking for Todd, for anyone he recognized. Wolf Parade was singing

  _…To the water so blue_  
_I will come undone_  
_And I will run to you…_

The lights were beginning to spazz into a garish white strobing in time with the band’s rapid drumming and he blinked fruitlessly and could feel his own throat uttering “um, um, um” but even his own ears couldn’t hear over the music and -

and Quentin was –

Quentin was –

Panicking. Yes. He was indeed panicking. He could not breathe with this many people around him. He could not breathe, period. It didn’t matter even if the air wasn’t hot and stuffy and suffocating, even if it was crisp and breezy, it just would not enter his lungs at the moment because he was fucked, and he knew it. 

So Quentin began sort of flailing, hitting people in their literal faces to form a path through them, trying to get anywhere away from the stage and toward a wall or an exit or a door or _something._ His heart hammered, his sweaty hair clung to his lips and neck, his lungs were frozen solid in his chest and he gasped uselessly against the blockage in his throat. The music sounded warped and hollow in his ears, like a bunch of clanging tin cans.

He felt himself hit something solid, more like a wall than a body. Vaguely, he felt someone trying to claw against his arm and a pair of concerned eyes in his peripheral, which he shook off immediately and darted toward the little stick man on the wall adjacent to him which indicated a bathroom.

Quentin pushed open the door to the bathroom, which had a single lightbulb casting a dim green hue; probably an attempt to cover the filth and grime and graffiti covering the room from floor to ceiling. Quentin felt the soles of his shoes sticking to the linoleum, heard them making sucking noises as he bolted to a stall and locked himself in. He fell, rubber-muscled, to his knees and clutched at his chest, until he was able to pull in a single, horrifying gasp of a breath. And then another. And then the moments between breaths became shorter. 

He could breathe again. But the sense of relief he’d usually feel following a panic attack, like he’d felt a boulder lifted from his chest, wasn’t there.

He felt the sensation of falling chaotically, spinning midair, out of control. He felt the weight of his phone in his pocket and a sudden desperate pulling on either side of him – one side, the need to reach someone, to be saved, to be spoken to and reminded he was still alive; the other side, the need to disappear, to sleep, to stop feeling all together.

He had the eerie, terrifying sense that he was at a dead end in his life, that this was it and there was nothing beyond this and maybe he didn’t care. 

Maybe he didn’t _care._  

There was that clinical voice in his head like he’d programmed WebMD into his brain and it said: Panic Attack. Suicidal Ideation. Hopelessness. Urge to Self-Harm. Suicidal Ideation. Suicidal Ideation.

Quentin saw his fingers trembling as he dialed.

Eliot’s voice came in his ear both cheery and irritated at once. “Q, you wouldn’t even _believe”_ -

“Eliot?” Quentin gasped, his hand shooting out to grip the toilet seat. His voice broke. “Eliot.”

“Q?” In a single syllable, his voice seemed to dive; the sound of a smile fading from a face. He thought he heard music on Eliot’s side too. He must’ve been throwing one of his parties, or on one of his weird poly tinder dates, or having fun of some kind that Quentin was inevitably about to ruin.

He felt suddenly, overwhelmingly guilty, his stomach churning with it. But he was also scared. So scared he couldn’t make his mouth form the words he wanted to say, and it had a mind of its own.

“Eliot,” his mouth said. “I can’t – I don’t know – _why_ I came here but I think I’m” –

Eliot said something faraway before his voice came in clear again and he said, serious now, “Quentin, are you in trouble? Where are you?”

“No,” Quentin said, but his lips wobbled. He almost dropped the phone from the tremor that ran through him. “Maybe, El, I don’t know. I-I-don’t know.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Eliot said, firm but gentle. “Where are you, Q? Tell m-wh-are-co” –

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Quentin ripped the phone from his ear to look at the screen. Two bars. One bar, now that he moved it. Fuck.

He scrambled up from the floor, pressing the phone back to his ear. Eliot was still saying something, his words laced with static, as Quentin jumped up on to the toilet seat, pressing his palm to the stall for balance. 

“Eliot!” he interrupted, frantic. He pressed his knuckles to his mouth and saw the tips of his hair trembling in his peripheral. He squeezed his eyes shut.  

“Q? Fuck-” Eliot said, panicked now. “Hey, _where_ _are you?”_

Quentin took a deep, shuddering breath. “Um,” his voice cracked. “This concert, Todd – um, Wolf Parade? Eliot, I think I might” –

“No. No, you won’t,” Eliot said. Quentin himself didn’t hardly know what he was about to say, but Eliot seemed to. “Stay there, Q. I’m coming to you.”

Quentin wanted to say, _you don’t have to._ Because that was what reasonable, independent, adult people said. That was what people said when they weren’t completely pathetic.

But he couldn’t say it. He couldn’t fucking say it.

And if Eliot was still on the phone, Quentin couldn’t hear him anymore.


	2. Eliot & Being a Practiced Drunk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually couldn’t recall if any one of these characters had a vehicle. Like, how do they get places? Besides magical clocks? What the fuck? Anyways, so Eliot has a car. Okay. Also, I love the i-hate-you-but-i-hope-nothing-bad-happens-to-you dynamic between Quentin and Penny so you can bet your ass I’m squeezing it in here, like it or not. 
> 
> Okay. Proceed.

Eliot Waugh was in over his head. And he was very tall.

He hadn’t planned to get drunk tonight. In fact, he hadn’t planned to have a single drink, because magic was back and he was supposed to be happy and not wasted and more like the guardian angel to Brakebills’ first-years than the bad influence but alas – 

He’d had a few. Eliot was a very practiced drunk, though, when he needed to be. Like, coitus with Margo and Quentin, together. He could’ve controlled himself then, if he needed to, but he willingly threw himself headfirst into that disaster, which hadn’t actually been much of a disaster at the time (quite the opposite), but he knew Quentin thought differently immediately, and should have had the foresight to see that that wouldn’t have been a very good move for the other man. 

Anyways, point was, when he got Quentin’s phone call, it would have had to take more than a bit – okay, a _lot_ – of alcohol to keep Eliot sedated.

As he twirled an olive in his drink, perched on the arm of the loveseat in the middle of the cottage and trying to gauge whether or not his charms were working on the handsome, if a bit stiff, young third year sunk into the loveseat below him – and they definitely were – he’d thought Quentin might’ve gone to bed a while ago. He’d been doing that a lot lately – sleeping from nine to twelve, getting up only to skulk around the Cottage in his pajamas like the resident houseghost.

Eliot’s efforts to interfere were awkward at best and intrusive at worst. He knew about Quentin’s depression from the moment he met him. He might’ve blamed it on Quentin’s tightly coiled posture and floppy curtain hair or the way his eyes were faraway more often than not or the way it took a lot for him to smile, but when he did, it was the realest smile Eliot would ever see. 

The truth was, though, Eliot had a nose for these things; and while his own spiraling usually smelt acutely of alcohol, he could recognize the underlying acridity of it on other people, and none was so blatantly pervasive as Quentin’s (and, as Eliot would later harbor bitterly inside of him, none was so frustratingly undeserved.)

He saw Q’s face light up his phone, though, and was drunk enough not to question why he would be calling him from his bedroom upstairs. Eliot smiled, turning away from the third year on the loveseat because, yes, unfiltered Eliot would tell Quentin that he was about to wrap up all of his carefully executed seduction techniques into a little bow back in the bedroom because stiff guy kept glancing at him with this blushing thing that, now that he thought about it, reminded him quite a bit of Quentin’s wide-eyed flustering confusion any time someone gave him a compliment –

“Q,” he sighed into the phone, lifting his drink as if in silent cheers to him. “You wouldn’t even _believe_ ” –

“Eliot! Eliot,” came a strangled cry in his ear, slightly fuzzy, but nonetheless sharp enough to send a little pang of surprise through him.

Eliot stood from the loveseat, frowning. He heard the unmistakeable sound of sharp, quick breaths on the other line. “Q?”

There was a pause that Eliot almost interrupted because he suddenly felt the weight of doubt in his gut and wondered if Quentin was upstairs after all, but then, “Eliot, I can’t – I don’t know – why I came here but I think I’m” –

Someone was tugging on him, trying to pull him away, and Eliot threw a look over his shoulder, faked a smile at the person whose name he was momentarily forgetting but who he thought he might have made out with earlier. “One second,” he mouthed to him.  

He walked away from them all, away from the blare of music, and stuck a finger in his free ear. “Quentin, are you in trouble? Where are you?”

“No,” Quentin said, a small, broken thing that was clearly a lie. Eliot’s eyes were already searching around the room for someone he knew. Anyone. “Maybe, El, I don’t know. I-I-don’t know.”

There were a thousand fucking things running through his head, terrible things, terrible things about where he was, what he was doing, what he might’ve been about to do because there was something in his voice that Eliot knew should _not_ , under any circumstances, be there -

“Hey, it’s okay,” Eliot said, steeling himself, trying to keep his voice calm. “Where are you, Q? Tell me where you are and I’ll come get you. It’s okay.”

There was static on the other end. Eliot squinted as if that might help him hear better. “Quentin? _Hey_.”

“-liot!” he came in again, sort of fuzzing in and out, and Eliot wanted to scream. Whatever alcohol-induced haze he’d been feeling before had been sapped and replaced with a frustrating sense of half-cognizance like he was stuck seeing through a blurry vignette when he needed to be seeing in technicolor.

“Q? Fuck.” Why was he looking around the room like a chicken in the road? He could handle this. He knew how to handle this. Yes. How many times had he calmed people out of their crises? When his father got all fucked up and forgot about Eliot’s sexuality for just as long as it took him to reel the man back from his drunken inner turmoil with some soothing words and a glass of water? Eliot did that, by himself, while terrified of the blow he hadn’t yet felt but knew would come when his father’s tears stopped. Eliot did that, a million times over.

Except this was Quentin. He didn’t know why that changed things.

He gripped the phone with both hands. “Hey, _where are you?_ ”

He heard the shaking of Quentin’s breath breaking through the static. “Um. This concert, Todd – um, Wolf Parade? Eliot, I think I might” - 

“No. No you won’t,” Eliot said firmly. He knew the stupid things that could run through people’s minds in a panic, and he refused to allow Quentin to do anything but stay the hell put. “Stay there, Q. I’m coming to you.”

Fucking Todd. Eliot wanted to stay on the phone, but he knew he couldn’t juggle it. He’d have to work as fast as he could.

He hung up, and as he did so, saw Penny gliding out of the kitchen, hunched over and glaring at the gathering in the living room like a vampire looks at a patch of sunlight on the carpet.

As Eliot dove toward him, he of thought of how he really, really wished Margo hadn’t chosen _tonight_ to go prowling for quick dick (the only circumstances in which she insisted Eliot not contact her for anything in case she was in the middle of something important. She wasn’t stupid enough to keep her phone off in case of emergencies, but Eliot knew she couldn’t possibly get to him in time.)  

Penny was about to disappear upstairs when Eliot grabbed his elbow. Penny spun around, his glare pointed sharply at Eliot’s fingers, before darting up to his face. Eliot didn’t even let go. It must’ve been alcohol-induced bravery.

 _Or_ , he thought, _Quentin-induced bravery,_ which was a thing he might, possibly, possess.

“I need a ride,” he said firmly, looking at the man from under his lashes. He felt himself swallow thickly. He had the most uncomfortable, crawling feeling of dread in his veins like the whole foundation of the house was about to crumble around him.

Penny’s face twisted into a grimace, and he wrenched his arm away. “Not a chance.”

“Penny, I’m serious,” Eliot said, lowering his voice. “I’m too fucked up to drive.”

"How is that my problem?" 

"Quentin needs help."

Penny’s grimace softened a twitch. “What kind of help?”

Eliot paused. Good question. Quentin didn’t exactly say what was wrong, only that the other man had sounded really fucking _wrong._ “Just – Penny. I need a designated driver, now. Now. Trust me.” 

Penny stared at him, and Eliot watched his eyes cooling into a frown of – and Eliot didn’t think it was the alcohol showing this to him – actual _concern._

Then, he nodded. “Yeah. ‘Kay.” 

Eliot breathed a sort of thank you before rushing to the door, grabbing his keys, and basically running to his car with Penny in tow, the music fading to a dull thumping inside the walls they’d left behind.


	3. Quentin & The Art of Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so seriously, please don't read this if you're triggered by depictions of self-harm, or any of the thoughts that come with it. Please. I write a lot of this as a catharsis for myself as well, so I'm not skirting around the topic. 
> 
> Apart from that, I hope you enjoy these next chapters cuz <3 Queliot <3

Quentin didn’t know how he’d managed to wander outside. 

(“Yes you do,” said the WebMD in his head. “You dissociated all the way from the bathroom to the parking lot, you sad, sad”-) 

He was sweating. Probably from the bodies he’d no doubt had to push against to get out here, on the street outside the concert hall, running his hand through his hair and pacing up and down the sidewalk like a lunatic. He could feel the eyes of the bouncers outside the doors, watching him closely. 

Last thing he could remember, he was huddled by a filthy toilet with his knees pulled to his chest, trying to breathe. He was thinking about cracking his head against the washroom stall hard enough to knock himself out, because he’d had that plummeting sensation in his chest that was convincing him he’d lost his mind and that this was the end of the proverbial road for him. 

God, he couldn’t even handle a concert. How was he meant to handle the shitstorm of his life? Had anything he’d done thus far meant anything at all? What was he even still doing here? 

(“Look who’s spiraling,” said WebMD. It was starting to sound like him – the other Quentin. DepressionMonster!Quentin.) 

“Fuck you,” Quentin spat to no one, curling his hands into fists. 

For weeks he’d felt nothing at all. He’d wasted entire days in his bed, had no memory of any conversation he’d had, and had hardly even eaten a thing. And now he was getting his karma for being a lazy, useless human being. It was all coming back to him – his hopelessness, his pointlessness; the reason he was committed before he got to Brakebills, when he was crazy and suicidal and hurting himself – 

He remembered what he’d tried to say to Eliot on the phone. 

“Eliot, I think I might” – 

“No. No you won’t.” 

That was what he’d wanted, right? That was what he’d been trying to say. He wanted that distraction back. That blessed pain, purely physical, yanking him from the dredge of these thoughts and back into a reality where everything hurt but he felt so alive – 

He stopped pacing. 

He looked straight across the street at the small gathering of people outside of a diner, standing by a smoker’s receptacle. He watched the smoldering end of a cigarette glow bright orange as one of the smokers took a drag.

One hit, and all of this chatter in his head, all of the fog dragging him down, would disappear for just long enough to get his shit back together.

He started across the street, stumbling like a drunk and muttering to himself, until he feigned a trip right into one of the smokers. 

“Shiiiit, ‘m sorry,” he said, then giggled sloppily. 

The smoker raised his hands up and grimaced, recoiling from him. He was just about Quentin’s height, making it easy for Quentin to slide his hand into his jacket pocket and wrap his fingers around a small, clunky piece of metal. 

The smoker hadn’t a clue what just happened as Quentin shoved past him and up the street. 

(“Congratulations, Q,” said the Quentin in the back of his brain. “Your only talents – pickpocketing and magic tricks. You’re a fucking treasure.”) 

Quentin ignored him. He’d drown him out soon enough.

He came upon an alley, warm metal clutched in his fist. It was deserted but for a dumpster, so he ducked into the dark, not bothering to look if anyone was following him (which he’d been conditioned to do since becoming a magician in a world of other, more psychotic magicians.) But he didn’t care this time. 

He was breathing quick, practically salivating by the time he pressed his back against the brick wall and slid down next to the dumpster. He uncurled his fist and saw the plain zippo lighter there, glinting in the moonlight, beckoning him.

He flicked the cap up and stared at it, his heart beating so hard and fast he felt it might explode. 

Quentin rolled up his sleeve. He licked his lips. 

He must’ve looked insane. 

He didn’t care. 

He pressed his thumb to the gears and ground the lighter on. A flame burned bright and hot and flickering. He brought the soft flesh of his inner forearm closer to it, slowly, before touching it to the top of the flame. 

Pain. White-hot, blinding, searing – 

He gasped like a drowned man coming up for air, and wrenched his arm away, his chest heaving. It’d been a while. The pain was fresh, almost unfamiliar. 

For a moment he didn’t think he could do it. 

Maybe it wouldn’t work this time. 

But then, as his arm stung and screamed, he noticed the clarity. His head was light. His thoughts were…well, they weren’t there. They were silenced, all of his energy put into the pain just above his wrist. 

All he was thinking, really, was how stupid he’d been to call Eliot. He wasn’t drowning. He didn’t need help. 

Hopefully the other man had been more sensible than him and stayed put. Quentin didn’t need saving. 

He flicked the lighter back on, ground his molars together, and brought his arm back to the flame. He felt, distantly, his head knocking back against the wall as he screamed through his teeth. Everywhere was pain. Everything was pain, pain, pain. 

Time ceased to exist.


	4. Eliot & Pain

Eliot stormed out of the concert hall, dropping his arms in defeat. “He’s not here.” 

Penny, who’d been leaning up against the car door in waiting, rolled his eyes. He turned back to the door, gripping the handle. 

Eliot leapt down the stairs toward him. “Uh, what are you doing? We can’t just” – 

“Yeah, I get it,” Penny snapped over his shoulder. He lowered his voice as Eliot approached him, aware of the bouncers by the doors. “You forget that I can read minds, dipshit. If I’m going to hear Quentin, we need to get closer to wherever he is.” 

Eliot frowned, shaking his head. “Q’s wards” – 

“Aren’t up,” Penny said. He shrugged. “Guess he hasn’t bothered since…the old Penny.” 

Eliot registered what he was saying. He began nodding fiercely, striding over to the passenger side. “Okay – okay. Let’s go. Fast.” 

“Don’t even,” Penny warned, but he ducked into the car anyway, and the two of them rolled up the street as slowly as they could go, Eliot scanning the streets with his eyes as Penny focused on the horizon. 

Eliot’s leg was bouncing erratically. He chewed on his inner cheek, hoping it wasn’t obvious to Penny how his breathing came in quick bursts through his nose. 

He had the most awful feeling. Sure, he had a lot of awful feelings a lot of the time, but ever since that whole…other life he’d lived (and died) with Quentin, there was something different about those Q-centric feelings he’d get; a residual electric crackle between the two of them, as if being life partners for so long had forged a connection between them that he couldn’t explain. 

They were tethered now. There was nothing Eliot could do about it (even if he’d wanted to, which he was pretty sure he didn’t), though he didn’t fully understand it. 

Now, though, along with that awful feeling of loss and worry in his gut like someone had just cut off a piece of him and tossed it in a junkyard for him to find, he was rotting with guilt. He could have helped Quentin. He knew the other man was going through something, and he did nothing. He watched from the sidelines, too afraid to expose himself to another person’s demons; too afraid that he wouldn’t be able to help even if he did. And now what? Now Quentin was out there somewhere feeling god knows what, and Eliot was on a wild goose chase against a clock, and he didn’t even know what would happen when the clock chimed, but he knew it wouldn’t be good. Not for him. Not for Quentin. Not for anyone. 

God, he was afraid. He curled his fists against the trembling. 

“Hold up,” Penny said, pulling over. He gripped the steering wheel with both hands and bowed his head, listening. 

Eliot was going to burst. “Is it him? Is it Q?” 

“Just shut up for a second.” 

Eliot did, but he wanted to throttle Penny, as if that might help hurry him up. 

Penny’s face scrunched up in confusion. 

Eliot couldn’t stand it. He pulled himself to the edge of his seat and turned toward the other man, his hand propped against the dashboard. “Fuck’s sake, Penny, we don’t have time” – 

“It’s like I hear him, but I don’t,” Penny said, his eyes squeezed shut. “Like… a bad radio signal?”

“Okay, so we’re not close enough.” 

Penny shook his head. “No, no - he’s clear when he comes in. It’s just…Jesus.” Penny winced and pulled back from the steering wheel, opening his eyes. “What did he say to you, man? What kind of trouble” – 

“Where is he, Penny?” Eliot demanded. 

Penny clenched his teeth, glaring at the other man, but he pushed open the car door and got out, starting up the street. Eliot’s eyes widened. He threw open his own door and followed, fear striking him with every beat of his heart.

Penny was concentrating still, looking slightly pale in the dim orange glow of the streetlamps, but he seemed confident in where he was heading, so Eliot refrained from saying any of the things he wanted to say to make him work faster. 

Finally, they stopped just in front of the dark mouth of an alley. 

“In-in there?” Eliot whispered, already approaching the alley. 

Penny didn’t say anything, but the grim expression on his face was confirmation enough.   
Eliot rushed into the alley. “Q? Are you in here? Quentin?” 

And there, on the ground, sat Quentin Coldwater with his head slumped against a dumpster, his floppy hair falling over half of his pale face. A sheen of sweat gleamed on his forehead, and his eyes were closed, but Eliot could see his breath moving the hair over his lips. 

“Q?” Eliot breathed. 

He felt no relief. Not yet. Something was off. 

His eyes caught Quentin’s arm, limp over one of his outstretched legs, its sleeve rolled up over the elbow. The pale stretch of skin was riddled with markings – markings hard to make out in the dark, but angry and red, inflamed, splotches from wrist to elbow, and Eliot’s heart drops to his stomach. 

He doesn’t want to get closer. He doesn’t want to see. But he does. He runs to Quentin, falling to his knees in front of him, muttering under his breath oh dear god, oh dear god – 

He grabbed Quentin’s wrist where it wasn’t marked and pulled his arm closer to him, his fingers hovering over what he could see clearly now as burn marks – some shaped like the press of a lighter, bubbling over his skin, and others small, deep craters from the tip of a flame, crimson with fresh blood. 

Eliot was shaking, but he brought his hands to Quentin’s face, pushing his hair away and cupping his cheeks, turning his head up to face him. 

“Quentin,” Eliot said firmly. “Hey, Q, come on now.” 

But Quentin wasn’t even unconscious. His eyes blinked heavily, slowly, before they managed to focus on Eliot’s face. They were teary but empty, faraway, and Eliot’s heart was shredding itself in half. 

“El?” Quentin said, his voice groggy.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Eliot murmured. “Keep your eyes open for me, Q. Where’s the lighter?” 

Quentin moaned, his brow furrowing. “Dumpster.” 

“Good, that’s good.” 

Eliot stroked his thumbs over Quentin’s cheeks, trying to bring some life back into him, but this boy in front of him was hardly present at all. He was broken. He was defeated. He was causing sharp, razor-thin slices of pain in Eliot’s chest. 

Eliot was aware of Penny coming into view, lingering behind the two of them in silence. Quentin would kill him for letting Penny see this. 

Then again, Eliot never would’ve gotten here without him. 

“’m sorry, El,” Quentin whispered. His voice was a strangled thing. 

"Shh. How about we get you home, Q? No offence, but you've looked better." 

"Hey, don't be stupid, Quentin," Penny said suddenly. Eliot turned his head sharply to look at him, but Penny looked stricken, his jaw clenched and his eyes lingering on Quentin with an uncharacteristic mix of horror and anger and confusion. 

Clearly, Quentin's thoughts were saying much more than his mouth was. Eliot looked back at him, trying to read him, and just then, Quentin changed. His eyes were apologetic, but pleading. His mouth was twisting down at the edges. He was becoming lucid again, and Eliot didn't like what he was seeing. 

He was seeing a man - a boy, really - begging to be left behind.


End file.
